


Trading faces

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, One-Sided Enjolras/Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 13:36:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21055283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: When Grantaire woke up to strands of long, blond hair falling into his eyes he knew his day was off to a bizarre start.





	Trading faces

’You think they listen because you’re right. You think they listen because you have something worthwhile to say. You’re wrong.’

Enjolras stared into the dark alleyway, perplexed. It seemed deserted. He could clearly hear a voice talking to him, but he had no idea where it was coming from.

’They only hang around you because you’re pretty’ the disembodied voice went on ’A well-made violin, nice to look at and listen to, but ultimately worthless.’

Enjolras wanted to argue but his throat felt suddenly tight, it was impossible to get the words out. He tried to walk away, but he couldn’t will his legs to cooperate either.

‘I watch you, you know. I keep wondering if there’s something more to you than a shiny vessel full of hot air. I think not’ the alley echoed with a hollow, scratching laugh ‘Oh and that little painter friend of yours? Do you honestly think he’d stick around if you lost your beauty? You cannot seriously believe that. You will see. I will make you see.’

Silence fell. Enjolras shivered with a sudden chill, but at least he was not rooted to the spot anymore. He turned, and while he did not run, exactly, he kept a rather brisk pace until he got home, all the while trying to convince himself that the creepy voice was the product of his own tired mind, nothing more.

He was still wrestling with the memory when Feuilly turned up at his doorstep with a bottle of wine and an interesting article he wished to discuss. He only managed to fully calm down and put the incident out of his mind when, after a couple of hours of excited chatter, Feuilly’s hand found its way under his vest, and the discussion dissolved into kisses.

***

When he went to bed last night, Grantaire fully expected to wake up with a roaring headache, yet there was no trace of it. Actually, the sheets smelled much nicer and felt fresher than his own. There was a soft, snuffling sound behind him – someone was sharing the bed with him. He wrecked his brain, frowning, trying to remember what could have happened last night, but all he recalled was a boring game of dominos with Joly and Bossuet, and he was certain he did not drink enough to forget the rest. Irritated and somewhat nervous he turned around.

The sight that greeted him was unexpected but reassuring – it was Feuilly. Grantaire shook his head and laid back down, staring up at the ceiling. Maybe he did drink too much after all, Feuilly took pity on him and escorted him home. Under such circumstances sharing the bed for convenience was perfectly normal among friends. Still, Grantaire could have sworn he got home on his own last night.

He blinked. Now that he was at least nominally awake, he noticed that the ceiling he kept his eyes on was strange. Too high up for Feuilly’s flat, which was in a basement, and the wrong colour for his own. He sat up.

A stand of long, blond hair fell into his eyes.

He blinked and raised a hand to pull at it, to take a better look – which meant he finally got a glimpse of his hands. Pale, soft hands with long, ink-stained fingers. Grantaire stared. He stared and stared and the longer he stared the harder the hands that definitely weren’t his own shook. He looked around frantically and spotted a full-length dressing mirror by his side of the bed – an unfamiliar feature, his own room had a completely different layout – willing his trembling legs to work, he got up and looked into it.

Enjolras looked back at him. Wide eyed, pale, clad only in a rumpled nightshirt, the sight was so alien, so different from the image Grantaire had of the man it took him a moment to even recognise him, but it was him, it was definitely him. Experimentally, Grantaire raised a hand. Enjolras in the mirror did the same. Grantaire ran a hand through his hair – it was long and soft under his fingers, just as soft as he imagined it would be. The image in the mirror did the same.

Grantaire laughed. It started with a helpless, breathy giggle and built up into a high-pitched, hysterical laugh and finally turned into harsh, heaving sobs. He braced himself against the mirror’s frame, unable to tear his eyes away.

‘Michel?’

Oh drat. Feuilly. Grantaire completely forgot about him. Finally forcing himself to look away from the mirror, he found the painter sitting up in bed, curly hair sticking up any old way, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His shirt fell open, revealing a bony shoulder. He blinked at Grantaire for a couple of moments, obviously trying to process what he was seeing, but when Grantaire’s expression finally registered with him he was out of bed and at his side in a blink of an eye.

‘Oh Michel… Come, easy now, come on, sit down. There you go.’

Michel? Nobody called Enjolras by his first name, not even Combeferre or Courfeyrac. Grantaire shook his head, and the thought was gone, washed away by his renewed panic. He allowed Feuilly to guide him back to the bed. He sat down beside him and started to gently rub his back.

‘Just breathe, love. In and out, in and out, nice and slow. Just like that.’

Feuilly took his hand and pressed it against his own chest, breathing in and out, slow and deep, imploring Grantaire to follow his lead. Grantaire bristled. Even toddlers knew how to breathe, he did not need instructions to manage something so simple! Yet he found himself following Feuilly’s example and gradually calmed down enough to make space for more thoughts in his head beside blind panic.

‘There you go’ said Feuilly ‘Can you talk?’

‘I- yes?’

What a strange question. Most of the time people wanted to know if Grantaire would shut up, not if he could talk. Feuilly smiled at him and went on.

‘Did anything specific happen? Or is it just…?’

Grantaire had no idea what was Feuilly referring to or what he was supposed to say. ‘_See, the thing is, I’m actually Grantaire, I have no idea what happened to Enjolras_’. That sure sounded like something a person could just blurt out, right. The helpless giggling bubbled up in his chest again. He pressed his lips together and shook his head.

‘It’s all right’ Feuilly murmured, into his shoulder ‘You go back to bed. You still have about an hour before you have to set out.’

Oh cheers, Enjolras was expected somewhere. That was not worrying at all… Grantaire squeezed his eyes shut. What to ruin, Enjolras’ image in Feuilly’s eyes, or his plans?

‘You know I really do feel quite awful. All – all nauseous. I think I’m coming down with something.’

‘Oh love… No point in forcing it then. I’ll take over.’

‘Thank you.’

‘That’s all right. Go back to bed.’

Feuilly kissed his temple, his cheek – and his neck. Grantaire’s eyes popped open. _That_ was definitely more than friendly. He was saved from further awkwardness by an urgent rapping at the door. Feuilly squeezed his shoulder.

‘I’ll deal with it.’

Grantaire watched Feuilly yank on his trousers and wrestle with its buttons as he left the bedroom. He remained slumped on the edge of the bed, half-heartedly listening to what was going on. Whoever was at the door was adamant he needed a word with Enjolras right now, despite Feuilly’s protest. The part of Grantaire’s brain that wasn’t preoccupied with panicking and falling from one shock to another and had been quietly wondering why Feuilly wasn’t at work yet, finally came up with the answer: it was Saturday. Grantaire rubbed his temples, hoping the visitor would give up already.

‘…I tell you he is unwell!’

‘I expect he is, which is why I must talk. I will try my best not to upset him any further. Will you at least ask him? He will know what I want.’

‘Grantaire if you hurt him…!’

Grantaire bolted out the bedroom door.

‘Wait, wait, he’s right, we must talk!’

Seeing himself from the outside almost sent him into a new fit of hysterics, but he managed to pull himself together.

‘What happened?’ Feuilly asked. He was alternately looking at them with deep concern and a vague mistrust.

‘We aren’t certain’ Enjolras – for it must have been him – said ‘Something that concerns the both of us, but that we don’t understand ourselves.’

Enjolras reached out and touched Feuilly’s arm. Grantaire scratched the back of his head – was he really this tall?

‘Feuilly’ Enjolras went on ‘I wish I could explain what’s going on, but I cannot, not yet. We will, you can rest assured, but I must ask you to give us a little time to try and make sense of it all.’

Grantaire fought down a snort. Even if he did not know for sure it was Enjolras in there, he could almost certainly tell. The man didn’t make even a token effort to sound like Grantaire. Based on the strange look he gave him, Feuilly also must have noticed the difference. He shot a questioning look at Grantaire – the person he believed to be Enjolras. Grantaire nodded. Immediately, without any further questioning Feuilly let not-Grantaire go and retreated into the kitchen.

When the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Grantaire flopped back down on the bed and gave his own body a critical one-over. It looked surprisingly presentable. While Enjolras did not shave his face clean, he tamed Grantaire’s overgrown stubble into what could with time become a neat enough beard. He stood with his back straight, carrying the unfamiliar body with a quiet dignity. Grantaire huffed. Of course. That’s just Enjolras for you.

‘Any idea what’s going on?’ he asked at last.

Enjolras shook his head.

‘Only the faintest inkling. If this is anyone’s fault, it’s probably mine.’

He began pacing the room and told Grantaire about a disembodied voice and the rude insults it hurled at him from a dark alleyway. Grantaire groaned and dropped his face into his hands. Well, Enjolras’ hands.

‘And I don’t suppose this entity left you with any instructions on how to reverse the situation?’

Enjolras sighed, shook his head and continued to pace. Silence reigned for a couple of moments. Finally Grantaire stretched and leant back on his elbows.

‘So. You and Feuilly, huh?’

Enjolras froze.

‘Grantaire…’

‘Virgin priest of the ideal, right?’

‘Cite me a single time I claimed to be that!’ Enjolras rounded on him with surprising vehemence ‘I am not responsible for what others make of me!’

Taking several deep breaths he walked up to Grantaire.

‘Please… Grantaire, think what you will of me, say what you will of me, but leave Ben out of this.’

A surge of gleeful spite bubbled up in Grantaire’s chest – he stomped it down with horrified disgust.

‘I would never hurt you’ he said, impossibly gently ‘Surely you must know that?’

Enjolras sighed and nodded his thanks.

‘There’s one thing, and it’s fairly urgent…’

‘That engagement of yours? Feuilly’s doing it!’

Enjolras nodded again.

‘I hoped he would offer’ he sat down beside Grantaire ‘I cannot even begin to imagine how will I tell him… and the others later.’

Grantaire’s stomach lurched. He did not get that far in his thinking yet, and now he wanted to throw up, run away and crawl under the bed, in whichever order.

‘Uhh… One step at a time?’ he offered ‘Survive this engagement, then tell him?’

Enjolras smiled a little, his customary tiny smile looking out of place on Grantaire’s face.

‘That was my idea too. There are some things I must let him know before he sets out today. Would you help me?’

***

Feuilly was terribly worried. That Enjolras would so readily agree to stay at home meant that he must indeed be in an awful condition, and Feuilly felt horribly guilty about leaving him alone. Still, the final draft of the pamphlet Enjolras was working on for the last couple of days must be delivered to the printer, along with Enjolras’ special instructions, and to the best of Feuilly’s knowledge all of their friends were otherwise occupied.

All, except Grantaire, apparently. The man as good as invited himself along to the printer, and for some reason Enjolras also insisted he should go. None of which served to lift Feuilly’s spirit. Grantaire was a good friend, but as a revolutionary he proved to be hopelessly incompetent time and time again. Also, he was not in the mood for his customary endless, semi-nonsensical ramblings.

Which, now that he thought about it, was noticeably absent. Since they set out, Grantaire had not uttered a single word. He walked in silence, seemingly deeply in thought, a slight frown on his face. Feuilly thought to ask, but he decided it must be their mysterious problem with Enjolras, and as he was promised an explanation on that matter, he supposed there was no point pushing the issue.

‘Are you going out today?’ he asked instead.

‘I did not plan to, why?’

‘You’re all dressed up, that’s why I thought you would.’

Grantaire reached up as if he was going to run his hand through his hair, let it hover awkwardly for a second, then quickly shoved it into his pocket. The motion looked strangely familiar, but Feuilly could not place why.

‘I just felt like it I suppose.’

Feuilly smiled and nodded. Who knew, maybe there was a girl, hopefully a serious one. That would also explain why his friend held his head up in a way Feuilly never saw him before. It would do him a lot of good and, frankly, Feuilly himself would also be more at peace if he stopped sighing over Enjolras. It was getting terribly awkward, but neither Enjolras nor him were sure if openly admitting to their relationship, even to their closest friends, would be safe. In the eyes of the outside world even Joly and Lesgle had the flimsy excuse of both chasing the same girl, even if all their friends knew better. Feuilly sighed. Being caught with a man could cost him his job.

‘Is anything the matter?’ Grantaire asked.

‘Oh, nothing really… I’m just worried for Enjolras, that is all. It usually takes much longer to convince him to take care of himself, just ask Combeferre.’

‘I imagine he must be terribly agitated. In all honesty I have no idea what to do about this situation we found ourselves in…’Grantaire shook his head ‘Just let us be done with this business, then we can at least tell you about it in more detail.’

A thoughtful sentiment, but one that did nothing to reassure Feuilly. Thankfully they reached the print-shop before he could sink back into his thoughts again. He circled around to the back door and knocked. While the apprentice who opened up wondered about the absence of Enjolras, Feuilly himself was one of their usual contacts, so after vouching for Grantaire he was let in without a problem.

The manuscript was handed over, instructions communicated. The chief of the printers skimmed through the text and set it aside.

‘Very well. We’ll let you know when you can come for the copies.’

The man rubbed at his eyes. Feuilly thought he looked terribly tired. Upon being asked, the printer shook his head.

‘I don’t know Feuilly’ he sighed ‘Sometimes, it feels like all this effort is in wain. We work beyond our hours, skirt trouble with the law and what for? What did this last uprising do? It gave us a different king, that’s all. All those lords and ladies in their palaces, what do they care about us? All they need do is to close their windows to drown out our voice.’

‘Who built their palaces?’

All eyes turned to Grantaire, for it was he who spoke up. He pushed himself off the doorframe and strolled into the circle of workers. The dim light of the printshop’s window threw his features into a stark contrast.

‘Who built their palaces, who prints their books, who grows the food on their table? They are nothing without you. This country is nothing without you. All those high and mighty lords and ladies, they would perish in a day without you. Let a prince into this shop and tell him to make a book, what would he do? Trip over the sets, scatter the types and spill ink all over himself, is what.’

This earned him a laugh. Feuilly took the opportunity to close him mouth, as he only now realised it was hanging open. Grantaire went on.

‘’30 did not give us what we wanted, not yet, but that is no reason to stop. Eventually they will have to listen. One by one, we are vulnerable. One by one, we can be locked away, silenced and killed, but together our voice drowns out theirs, our numbers dwarf theirs… And they simply cannot live without your labour. They know this. And they will learn to listen.’

By the time Feuilly recovered, they were already halfway to Enjolras’ flat. Feuilly knew, or at least hoped that under the layers upon layers of doubt, sarcasm and complaining Grantaire must at least somewhat agree with their ideals, or else he would not risk associating with them, but he never heard him speak in favour of said ideals, not once. And yet now he sounded completely sincere, his voice solemn and resounding, almost like a hymn. Something about it was hauntingly familiar, and yet alien from Grantaire.

‘That was…’ he managed to say finally ‘That was a good little speech. Excellent, even! Looks like they needed it too so, thank you!’

Grantaire smiled, but remained silent.

***

Left to his own devices, back in the flat, Grantaire slowly began to dress. He had no plan for the day. Enjolras asked him not to stray very far, so he could be present to help Feuilly understand the situation. Grantaire rubbed his chin – no need for shaving. He idly wondered how Enjolras even knew what to do with Grantaire’s own face. Finally he shrugged and looked for some clothes. Having piled them up on the bed he came to stand in front of the mirror.

He hesitated a bit – was this fair to Enjolras? Was he allowed to…? But finally he decided that if he was to live in this body for the foreseeable future he should be allowed to get properly acquainted with it. He took a good look at the face first. Somehow it looked more wan and pale than he expected it to, more tired. He wondered if he was affected by his own insecurities or if he was discovering more imperfections because he was looking from up close, but the circles under his eyes suddenly seemed more prominent, the nose long and pointy, and not at all like the classical ideal. He shrugged off his nightshirt. The body underneath was pale and soft, round like the statues of Antinous, though touching the arms and the stomach Grantaire could feel some hard muscles moving under the surface. He also discovered some stretch marks on the thighs. All in all, the person in the mirror, while undoubtedly a sweet young man, was barely recognisable as Enjolras.

Once dressed, he trudged out into the kitchen and found that Feuilly left some bread, jam and coffee out for him. Grantaire snorted and shook his head. This affaire must have been going on for a while now, if the little fan-maker felt so much at home. This he found almost as weird as the inexplicable switching of bodies, that Enjolras, untouchable, distant, chaste Enjolras would have a lover.

Grantaire stared into his coffee. Though the roaring muddle of his mind a new thought floated to the surface: Feuilly wasn’t surprised. He woke up to the person he believed to be Enjolras having a sobbing breakdown, and while he was duly concerned, he was neither fazed, nor surprised. He knew just what to do, what to say, and acted calmly through the whole episode.

Grantaire stared down at Enjolras’ elegant, fragile hands.

This was routine.

Composed, collected Enjolras, who always had a plan, routinely had fits of panic like this.

Grantaire downed the rest of his coffee. Enjolras had a lover, baggy eyes and fits of panic. Was anything he believed about this man true at all?

***

Upon returning from the print-shop with Grantaire, Feuilly found Enjolras dozing on the settee. He was pleased, it was so hard to get him to rest – an instance of pot calling kettle, Feuilly knew. He had half the heart to send Grantaire away or at least ask him to wait a bit with whatever it was he wanted to discuss, but the noise of their arrival roused Enjolras. He sat up with a yawn and blinked up at Grantaire.

‘Are you sure you want to do this? He’s not going to believe us.’

‘Are you prepared to go on as we are? To play along?’

Feuilly’s stomach flipped. What on Earth was going on? Enjolras continued to stare at Grantaire for a moment, then forcefully shook his head.

‘No. No, I could not. Feuilly, you better sit down for this.’

Feuilly did, more nervous by the moment. Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged a look – Grantaire reached up again, as if to pull on his hair, stopped mid-air and shoved his hand into his pocket. Finally he took a deep breath.

‘We are all rational men. I know you don’t believe in any form of the supernatural, or at least not such that would influence the daily lives of men. I held the same belief up until this morning. Ben’ he said, desperation colouring his voice ‘There’s no easy way to say this but… I’m Michel. This here is Grantaire.’

Feuilly stared. He was vaguely aware that he must have been making a terribly stupid face, but he did not care. He understood the individual words, but their meaning refused to reach his brain. Grantaire – Enjolras? went on, telling him about some disembodied voice in a dark alley but Feuilly barely heard him. He kept staring off into space.

‘Ben?’

Feuilly started. Supposedly-not-Grantaire finished his speech and was looking at him, visibly nervous. Feuilly took a deep breath.

‘I could imagine a lot of our friends pulling a prank like this, R included, but…’

‘I wish we were joking but we really aren’t’ not-Grantaire raised his hand again, as if to – _as if to pull on the ponytail that should have been there_. To pull on and twist his hair like Enjolras always did when agitated. Feuilly’s heart sped up.

‘…Michel?’

Enjolras’ breath hitched. He knelt down in front of Feuilly.

‘It’s me. It’s really me.’

Feuilly dropped his face into his hands.

‘I knew something was off, I knew it. But why? How?’

Enjolras put his hand on his knee.

‘By all appearances this spirit, or whatever it was, wished to teach me a lesson. It seems to think that without my good looks I am nothing and wanted to prove this point.’

‘So this entity... thing... forced you into the ugliest body it found’ Grantaire grumbled ‘Fairy dearest can go sit on a dead hedgehog. I realise I’m not the epitome of Classical male beauty, but this is low.’

Feuilly kept his face hidden in his hands. He could feel some tears gathering in his eyes – he could not help it, the whole situation was simply beyond comprehension. He could not even begin to fathom what the others, the actual victims of the mixup must be going through.

‘So…’ he said, finally looking up ‘What now?’

‘We tell the others’ Grantaire blurted out.

Enjolras shuddered, but Grantaire went on, words toppling over each other in a rush.

‘What else could we possibly do, play each other’s lives ad infinitum? No. No, I refuse. Enjolras, you said yourself that it’s an absurd notion! Jesus Christ, just imagine… Say Combeferre asks me… I don’t even know, he asks me about those cartridges we’re collecting. The hell do I know about the cartridges? Courfeyrac has two crates and Bahorel is expected to pick up another one on, oh, Thursday? I think? The fuck do I know about any cartridges?’

‘Anything there is to know about them, it would seem’ said Enjolras quietly ‘But you are right, it would be unfair to us both, not to mention impossible to keep up. If the situation doesn’t improve until the next meeting, we tell the others.’

‘Can’t see how it could improve’ Grantaire muttered.

Silence reigned for a while. At last Grantaire stood and stretched.

‘Very well then. Enjolras, my keys should be in your pockets, would you pass them along?’

A moment more, and he was gone. Enjolras sat down in his vacated seat – now it was his turn to bury his face in his hands. Feuilly quickly came to sit beside him. He knew what was coming. When in a crisis, Enjolras’ first instinct was to go emotionally numb. This made him seem cold and unfeeling in the eyes of the superficial onlooker, but allowed him to act with a clear head. The full impact usually took some time to percolate through his mind and hit his heart with full force.

It seemed like it finally happened now.

‘This is all wrong, this body is all wrong!’ Enjolras sobbed ‘The hair is too short, none of the limbs are where I expect them to be, I can’t stand this Benji, I can’t!’

Feuilly wrapped an arm around him, trying to think of something comforting to say, when he was pierced by a fresh spike of panic.

‘He knows…!’

‘W-what?’

‘Grantaire, he knows about us! All morning I thought it was you, that I was alone with you and - !’

‘That’s all right’ Enjolras said, rubbing at his eyes ‘I talked about it with him. He won’t say anything.’

The rush of relief was so profound it left Feuilly shaking. He dropped his head on Enjolras’ shoulder and closed his eyes.

‘Speaking of which…’ said Enjolras, hoarse and uncertain ‘Ben, I understand how hard this must be for you. That this’ he gestured at his face ‘Is not what you want, not what you fell in love with. I would understand if…’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Feuilly sat up straight and took Enjolras’ face into his hands.

‘Look, I’m not going to lie, it will take me some time to stop seeing Grantaire when I look at you, but I’m not leaving. It’s you, it’s still you, in every little gesture, in every turn of speech, it’s still you, and I love you.’

Enjolras’ eyes welled up again – Feuilly surged forward and kissed him. It was strange – the lips thinner, the chin scratchier, the fingers in his hair thicker – but it was Enjolras. His love, his Michel. He leaned back, panting. Enjolras’ eyes were wide open, a strange glow surrounding him. He shuddered, his eyes drooping for a second, before opening wide again.

‘Uhh, Feuilly? What just…?’

He stared down at his hands, looked up at Feuilly, back down at his hands – and laughed.

‘I’m me! I’m back! What the hell was all this? What just happened? Did you kiss him back into shape? Of course you did, oh my God!’

Feuilly blinked.

‘…Grantaire?’

‘The one and only! Don’t you worry, I barely left the building, Enjolras shouldn’t take long.’

Indeed, in only a couple of minutes they could already hear the rushing patter of running feet from the stairwell. A moment more and Enjolras burst through the door, throwing himself into Feuilly’s arms. He hid his face in the crook of Feuilly’s neck, muttering loving, affectionate nonsense into his skin, allowing himself to be rocked and held and comforted.

Their bliss was disturbed by a small cough.

‘I’ll be out of your hair in a minute’ Grantaire said sheepishly ‘But Enjolras has my keys once more.’

The others broke apart, beaming, disoriented. It took Enjolras a few moments of fumbling before he could find the keys and hand them over.

‘Say what, R?’ said Feuilly ‘Stay a while. I think we could all use a drink.’

***

As disastrous as the day started, it ended in a jolly good mood, the three men laughing about the absurd adventure and calming their frayed nerves over some brandy. Enjolras, for once, was truly happy in his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> Feuilly has a day off on Saturday because I like to write him as Jewish - otherwise Saturday was a workday.


End file.
